Catlike
by Nearing Midnight
Summary: There is a newcomer to the bookshop. Crowley isn't jealous. He isn't. (Aziraphale/Crowley)
1. Catlike

**I'm sad because of Homophobic Family™ so I wrote this fic to cheer myself up. This is pure fluff of Aziraphale and Crowley being queer and in love. **

**Warnings for mentions of human and animal deaths. (The human death is offscreen and no actual animals are harmed in the fic at all.)**

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There was a cat in Aziraphale's lap.

Crowley stopped short at the threshold of the bookshop and stared. He blinked. The baffling tableau before him did not change. Aziraphale was sitting in his armchair absorbed in a book, which was usual for him. What was _un_usual was the grey tabby cat curled up on Aziraphale's legs, purring to its heart's content.

"There's a cat in your lap," Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked up, a smile already spreading over his face. "Hello, my dear," he said, beaming. "I wasn't expecting you until six—"

"There is a cat," Crowley repeated, stepping forward, "in your lap."

Aziraphale looked down at the cat, as though he himself had forgotten it was there. "Oh, yes," he said, stroking a hand down the cat's spine. "Crowley, meet Dorian. He's a dear little fellow, aren't you, darling?" The cat purred louder and arched its back, and Crowley tried not to feel envious. Then he remembered he was a demon, meant to encourage the spread of deadly sins among the populace, and he stopped trying to hold it in.

_"Why_ is there a cat in your lap?"

"It's rather a funny story, actually," Aziraphale said absently, scratching the cat under the chin. "I have this customer, you see, who's been coming to the shop for _years_ now, ever since 1981—"

Crowley sighed. "The short version, please, angel."

He extracted the story from Aziraphale eventually. Said customer**¹** had an old relative who had passed away recently. The passing itself hadn't been all that tragic, as the old relative had apparently been "a bigoted fool who's surely among your coworkers Down There by now", as Aziraphale put it. However, the relative had owned a cat who was nothing like his owner, and who had quite suddenly found himself without a home after his master's timely death.

[**1:** Evidently, no person who actually _bought_ books would ever be allowed to step foot in the shop again. However, Aziraphale had a small group of dedicated "customers" who were permitted to leaf through his books to their heart's content, so long as they handled the manuscripts carefully and didn't try to purchase anything.]

"...and so I told Xiuying that I could certainly help find a home for him, and that home was with me," Aziraphale finished. He rubbed Dorian's furry ears, to the cat's delight.

"So you're keeping him," Crowley said slowly, still wrestling with the concept of a cat sitting in Aziraphale's lap where there hadn't been one before. "Forever."

Aziraphale visibly drooped a bit. "Not _forever,_ I suppose, in the strictest sense of the word. He still has another good twenty years in him, if we care for him well, but…"

"Never mind that," Crowley said hastily, heart dropping at Aziraphale's expression. He went up to the angel's side and pressed a kiss into the halo of thick black curls. "Just — Dorian, really? I thought you said his former owner was a bigot."

Aziraphale relaxed and twined their fingers together. "He had a different name before he came here, of course. But it just seemed terribly unfitting, and, well. I reckoned it was about time for a change."

From the way Dorian looked up expectantly at the sound of his new name, he seemed to agree. Crowley studied the rotund ball of grey fluff, and thought he could understand where Dorian was coming from.

"I think it's a great name," Crowley said, perching on the arm of the armchair. He flinched a bit when Dorian craned his neck over to sniff his hand, but Aziraphale only chuckled.

"He doesn't bite, my dear. You have nothing to fear. Now, Dorian," he said sternly to the feline, "I trust you will conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station. Crowley here is my dearest friend and I love him very much, so I expect you to treat him just as well as you have treated me."

Whether or not Dorian heeded the gentle scolding didn't seem to matter. He bumped his nose against Crowley's curled fingers, and then, apparently deciding that this new man-shaped creature was a satisfactory addition to the bookshop, pressed his furry head hard against Crowley's hand, purring up a storm. Crowley had turned into a puddle of befuddled-but-warm mush at Aziraphale calling him "my dearest friend", but he collected himself enough to reciprocate Dorian's affections, tentatively scratching the cat's ears and then more boldly stroking through his soft fur. Dorian melted into fourteen pounds of fuzz and feline bliss.

Eventually the three of them found themselves in the back room of the bookshop. Logically the settee shouldn't have been able to hold two fully-grown adults and one large cat all curled up together, but a discreet miracle ensured that they could all fit without anyone rolling off.

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale's sweater and breathed in the comforting smell of old books and starlight. Then he wrinkled his nose and withdrew.

"You're covered in cat hair," he complained.

Aziraphale was already half asleep, but the corners of his lips quirked faintly upwards. "I could say the same of you, too, my dear," he murmured.

Crowley thought of his nice black suit all covered in clinging light grey cat hairs, and groaned. "I'll never get them off my clothes at this rate," he muttered. "Furry little devil."

The furry little devil in question was curled around the region of Crowley's back, rumbling away like a particularly contented mini-lawnmower. Crowley had to grudgingly admire his air of smug feline satisfaction.

Aziraphale hummed. "He's only a cat, my dear. Not hellish nor heavenly in the least."

He opened his eyes to meet Crowley's, and smiled.

"After all," he whispered, with a sly glance, "There is only one demon in the universe whom I love."

Crowley caught Aziraphale's lips in a kiss. They continued along this vein for quite some time, and would've gone on for much longer, had Dorian not grown tired of the proceedings and eventually yowled for his dinner.

(And if, in years to come, Dorian survived long past the possible lifespan for a mortal cat, no one else was around to notice.)

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**Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are much appreciated.**


	2. the ravell'd sleeve of care

**Warnings: mention of knives, but no violence whatsoever.**

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"Crowley!" Aziraphale called, pushing open the door of the bookshop with a tinkle of the bell. He hefted the paper bags in his arms and set them down on the nearest table.

"My dear, there's a new bakery that's just opened up not two streets away," he said cheerfully, hanging his coat and scarf. "Run by a lovely young couple who just moved here from Sussex, if you would believe it, though they say they're adjusting to city life wonderfully well. I asked -"

Aziraphale stopped short and looked around. Crowley hadn't greeted him. Crowley wasn't even in the room at all. Only a few short hours ago, he'd been sitting on the front counter playing a game of some sort on his mobile, only pausing to give Aziraphale a goodbye kiss before he left. Now the only evidence that Crowley had been there at all was his mug of cocoa on the desk, now cold and congealed.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale called again, a trifle more warily. He probed the area for supernatural traces and found nothing out of the ordinary, but didn't allow himself to relax just yet. Now that he thought of it, Dorian hadn't come to the front door to greet him, either; Crowley was still adjusting to the cat's presence, but he certainly wouldn't allow Dorian to escape outside or get stuck somewhere in the shop. Aziraphale eyed the hallway that led to both the kitchen and the back room. Worst case scenario, he had a wickedly sharp serrated sandwich knife in the drying rack. Hardly a flaming sword, but it would do for his purposes.

He edged down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen, but a movement from the back room redirected his attention. A shape appeared to be huddled on the settee, and Aziraphale quickly discovered, to his relief, that it was only Crowley, snoozing soundly away beneath a knitted blanket. Headphones covered his ears, which explained why he hadn't heard Aziraphale return.

Crowley was not alone on the couch, however. Dorian lifted his head and looked over inquisitively as Aziraphale approached, but otherwise didn't move from his established seat atop Crowley's stomach. Aziraphale laughed softly and ruffled Dorian's ears, careful not to awaken the demon.

"Keeping him warm, are we?"

Dorian shook Aziraphale off and sprawled out even more across Crowley's torso, as if to say _yes, and I am taking my job _very _seriously, so kindly cease from interrupting me._

"'Just tolerating the beast', indeed." Aziraphale shook his head fondly and took out his phone. Crowley had taught him how to take photographs with it shortly after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and Aziraphale put this skill to good use over the next few minutes.

(Later, Crowley would roll his eyes when Aziraphale showed him, muttering about cat hair all over his trouser-legs and paws digging into his ribs. Despite these complaints, Aziraphale, with a knowing smile, didn't fail to notice that Crowley had a brand new lockscreen wallpaper on his phone the following morning.)


	3. Bedside Manner

**A small triple-drabble for this 'verse because I'm having fun writing Dorian. Warning for emetophobia (but just a mention). **

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Crowley stirs from an uneasy slumber at the faint creak of the bedroom door. The throbbing in his temples has dulled, somewhat, but nausea still roils in his stomach, and he doesn't much fancy the thought of sitting up.

"That you, angel?" he mumbles. His answer comes in the form of skittering paws over wooden floorboards, followed by a slight weight landing on the mattress beside him. A furry round thing paws insistently at his arm, and he can't resist the urge to groan.

"No, Dorian. I can't play with you today." Crowley gingerly lifts the cold, damp cloth over his aching eyes for just long enough to see Dorian's broad, inquisitive face hovering inches away from his nose. Even that brief glimpse sends a sharp spike through his brain, and he winces and drops the cloth back over his forehead.

"Where did you even come from?" he mutters. "I thought Aziraphale was keeping you in the shop so you wouldn't come upstairs."

He debates calling the angel to take Dorian away. As much as he (grudgingly) loves the cat, he really does feel awful, and any activity more strenuous than sleeping is bound to make him worse. But Dorian doesn't bounce on the mattress or tread on his face or serenade him with noisy meows, as Crowley fears. Instead, he gains a furry hat as Dorian, with unexpected prudence, circles around his head and plops — carefully — down onto the pillow. His tail tickles Crowley's cheek, and quietly, all but inaudibly, Dorian begins to purr, rumbling through his chest and soothing a measure of the ache in Crowley's skull.

Crowley gradually melts back into the mattress as Dorian's warmth presses against his skin. "Good boy," he says sleepily, and drifts off once more to the lullaby of Dorian's self-satisfied purrs.


End file.
